


"Drunken shouting - Sober tears" DSMP!Jschlatt x GN!Reader

by Wren_whh



Category: Minecraft (Video Game), Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Alcohol, Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Angst, Character Death, Crying, Heart Attacks, Hurt/Comfort, Other, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-22
Updated: 2021-01-22
Packaged: 2021-03-13 17:06:52
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,080
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28906812
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wren_whh/pseuds/Wren_whh
Summary: Your job title was to protect the president, you expected to protect him against his enemies, the original L’manburg citizens. You didn’t however expect to protect him from himself.
Comments: 4
Kudos: 64





	"Drunken shouting - Sober tears" DSMP!Jschlatt x GN!Reader

Your job title was to protect the president, you expected to protect him against his enemies, the original L’manburg citizens. You didn’t however expect to protect him from himself.

You were quite neutral in the whole political world and so you got hired as Jschlatt’s bodyguard. He seemed stable, maybe a little psychotic and power-hungry, but he was easy to work with for the most part. Keep your mouth shut, your crossbow loaded, and eyes keen for any potential threats. At first, it was Wilbur and Tommy, then Technoblade joined in and the list started growing. Jschlatt was more on edge, that was obvious. You could only watch as the number of bottles on his desk grew by the days. He was rarely sober and when he was... It was painful.

“FUCK!” He shouted out, smashing the now empty bottle of whisky against his desk, the bottle shattering and the shards scattering everywhere. There was nobody here that was willing to clean up for him anymore, so it was now your job. What were you supposed to do when he became more of a threat to himself than anyone else was?

“Get... Get me another bottle you bitch.” He spat out. Schlatt was deteriorating in front of your eyes, you couldn’t watch as he wasted his life.

“I’m sorry sir. But I cannot. That would be putting y-” Your sentence was cut short as he slammed his hand into the wooden desk, the glass shards leftover slitting them open. A small pool of blood spilled from his knuckles and palms.

“I SAID, GET ME ANOTHER FUCKING BOTTLE!” You flinched. No wonder everyone was leaving him. Even you considered it more than a few times, but in the end, you stayed. Because even though you knew how horrible he could get when he was drunk, you saw the way he looked when he was sober. The desperation in his eyes as he cried into your shirt and rested his head on your shoulder, begging you to help him, to hold him, to make him feel worthy and loved. Or in his words ‘to save him’

That’s why you didn’t leave him, as bad as it sounded, you knew that without you he would drink himself to death without a second thought. Schlatt looked scary at this moment, deep down you knew that tomorrow you’d be drying up sober tears and cleaning up shattered glass.

“FUCK! YOU FUCKING CUNT!” A scream escaped his lungs, he was in obvious pain from the blood that dripped down his hand onto his white t-shirt. Another shirt to throw away you silently thought to yourself.

“Hold on Sir, I’ll grab some bandages.” You spoke, attempting to keep your composure in front of your boss. How were you expected to save him from himself? You weren’t a therapist, you were a bodyguard. A human shield if you will.

You always kept regen pots and a medkit on hand, this wasn’t the first time he had injured himself like this, sometimes it was worse. Sometimes he needed stitches, other times he needed a hug.

When you came back with regen pots, tweezers, and bandages in hand, he threw even more of a fit.

“I thought...- I thought I said more whisky!” His words were even more slurred now, and your heart just sank as you neared his desk, his eyebags becoming more and more visible. You knew he hated what he had become more than anyone else. It was obvious when you accidentally walked in on him when he was staring in the mirror, glaring at his reflection until he smashed it, causing you to have to wrap up his bruised and bloody hands yet again. To everyone else, he was a tyrant, a dictator, and a terrible person. To you, he was a lonely man, swallowed by a hole of intrusive thoughts and a severe alcohol issue.

He deserved more than a target on his back and the absence of people he once cared so deeply about. He deserved people who were there for him, who stayed around even when he couldn’t support himself emotionally. They should have been there for him, and it boiled your blood that they weren’t. You snapped out of your thoughts when one of the first glass shards got pulled out of his hand.

“STUPID FUCKIN-” You pulled out another piece and he took a sharp intake of breath, the least damaged hand gripped onto your shirt, bringing his head to your chest.

“I’m just trying to make sure it doesn’t get infected Sir.” You mumble, wrapping it up tight, watching as tears pricked at his eyes. It hurt to see him like this.

Days passed by, the crying as you held him became more and more frequent as the inevitable dawned upon him. He was going to die. The war was upcoming, his heart was giving out. He just couldn’t take it any longer.  
When it happened, you weren’t exactly surprised. You watched as the enemy team crowded around, powerless. That’s what you were. Powerless as you watched the man you grew to adore struggle to stand, clenching at his heart.  
“I-If I die, this country goes down with me.” He shouted.

Seeing him clutch at his chest and drop to the floor was painful. It was more painful knowing you never got to say your goodbyes to the drunken man you had grown to care so much for. You would never hear his slurred shouts and demands for whisky or feel the tight grip on your shirt as he sobbed again.

When his pulse stopped, you knew it was truly over, and when the cheers of victory from the other side filled your ears, the only thing you could feel was anger. Anger at the cruelty of the world. Anger about how they could be so happy about the loss of a dear friend. Angry at the fact it was them alive and not him.

They celebrated into the night as you sat there with his cold, limp body in the woods, starting to build his grave. The grave that only you would visit, the grave that only you would leave stuff at. Because in the end, you were the only one to be there for him, from when you got drunk, to when he cried, to when he died. “How would I describe my time with you...” Your voice became a mere whisper. “Drunk shouts - sober tears. Huh schlatt?” 


End file.
